DON'T YOU DARE PEE IN THE IMPALA!
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Some beings just love to play tricks on humans.  Dean and Sam find out the hard way when they stop for a night of rest in a creepy motel room.  Reviews are always welcome and much appreciated!
1. A Room of Flora and Fauna

Disclaimer: The lovely and indomitable Eric Kripke is the proud owner of our Winchester boys. I can only wish wistfully that it were I.

Don't You Dare Pee in the Impala!

By: Vanessa Sgroi

Dean Winchester pushed open the door to Room 24 of the Camelot Motel and wearily trudged inside. His brother, Sam, followed on his heels. Slapping on the light, he blinked at the sudden glare and glanced around the room.

"Whoa, dude, this is one of the creepiest rooms we've ever stayed in," Dean breathed out in a hushed voice.

Sam's eyes darted from corner to corner, and he found himself nodding in agreement. "Man, I think you're right."

All the walls were a painted landscape with lifelike flora and fauna, resembling the dark depths of an enchanted forest. Interspersed throughout were all manner of whimsical and fantastical creatures. Unicorns frolicked, ogres and trolls growled, fairies and more flitted from flower to flower. It was like a little girl's room on heavy-duty anabolic steroids.

Dean grimaced. "Good thing I'm too tired to care much."

"Yeah, and it IS only for one night. Won't see much of it through closed lids," replied Sam with a half smile.

Dropping his duffle on the first bed, Dean mumbled, "Want the first shower?"

Surprised at the unexpected offer and conscious of how sticky he was with sweat and grime, Sam offered a happy, "Really?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Dean comically mimicked, "Yes, really."

"Sweet!" Sam deposited his duffle bag on his bed and rooted around for clean boxes and t-shirt to sleep in, hurrying to grab any needed items and get to the bathroom before Dean changed his mind.

"Just hurry!" the elder Winchester called out as the bathroom door banged shut.

A half hour later found both Winchester's showered and settled down in their respective beds. Sam yawned and knuckled his eyes, rolling onto his right side. "'night, Dean. See ya in the morning."

"Yeah. Just not freakishly early," grumbled Dean good-naturedly. He snapped off the lamp and wiggled around to get comfortable. In the first few seconds of silence, the older hunter thought he heard soft rustling sounds coming from the creatures on the walls. "Damn freaky room," he muttered under his breath. He slid his hand under his pillow making sure his knife was right where it was supposed to be. Reassured, he let himself drift off into slumber.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_In four days time_

_it will be done,_

_return will he_

_into mother's son._

Dean awoke suddenly with those strange whispery words, accompanied by an odd ethereal giggle, echoing in his mind. Puzzled, he remained still for several moments trying to figure out if he'd merely been dreaming. It was then he realized he heard panting—panting?—coming from Sam's bed.

"Sam, what the hell you doin' over there?" Dean growled and then paused as a wayward and rather horrifying thought struck. "Wait a minute—you're not—Sammy, you wouldn't—not with me right here in the ro—" Dean's sentence stammered to an awkward end and he held his breath, listening.

"I'm turning on the light, Sam. You just better not be . . ."

Pushing back the scratchy sheet and comforter, the elder Winchester sat up and flipped on the light, his gaze riveted on Sam's bed. What he saw pulled a slight gasp from his lips. Sam's bed was empty. Well, not really empty—a humongous, floppy, brown dog lay sprawled—happily sprawled—smack in the middle of the bed where Sam had been when Dean had drifted off. Eyes searching the room, he called out, "Sam?"

WOOF

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Dean yelled again, "Sam, where are you?"

WOOF

More than a little worried now, Dean stood and stalked to the bathroom. A quick glance inside was enough to prove it empty. He next hurried to the room door, yanked it open, and visually searched the parking lot and surrounding area for some sign of his brother. He noted with relief that the Impala was still parked in the slot he pulled into hours earlier.

Closing the door with a bang, he spun around; half expecting to see Sam's familiar freakishly tall and gangly form flopped out on the bed. Instead the dog gazed back at him with an almost quizzical expression on its face.

"What the hell is going on? Damn it, Sam, where could you have gone?" Dean was beating himself up for not salting the door and windows last night even though they were between hunts and he'd no reason to expect anything bad happening.

WOOF

It was then Dean noticed a wispy, silvery piece of paper fluttering on the corner of Sam's bed. He quickly marched over and grabbed it, noticing an iridescent, glimmering, gritty dust sprinkled liberally on the paper. It coated his fingertips as he held it up to read the words printed there.

_In four days time_

_it will be done,_

_return will he_

_into mother's son._

Reading those words—the very words echoing in his head earlier—sent a shiver tripping down Dean's spine. He looked at the dog and finally noticed the same iridescent, glimmering, gritty dust gleaming on the dog's warm brown fur.

"Sammy?"

WOOF

Dropping down on the edge of the bed, disbelief written all over his handsome face, Dean moaned, "Holy shit, Sam. I can't believe this. You've been turned into a dog!"

WOOF

TBC . . .


	2. Did Someone Say Food?

Ever the hunter, Dean jogged from the room, returning a minute later with the EMF meter. A quick but thorough scan of the room disappointingly revealed absolutely nothing. Dean tossed it down on his bed.

With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a muttered curse, Dean eased himself back down on the edge of the mattress and stared at the intimidating creature reclining on the opposite bed. To most people, the big floppy dog would be far from intimidating. But Dean Winchester wasn't most people. Rubbing his palm over his short, spiky hair, Dean mentally compiled a list of what he knew about dogs—which wasn't much unless they happened to be hellhounds or legendary black dogs. Hell, he knew more about the cartoon Scooby-Doo than he did real live honest-to-goodness dogs.

As he was mentally counting down the short and uninformative list, his gaze suddenly zeroed in on the dog, a V of a frown marring his brow. "You just better not try to hump my leg. Got that, Sammy?"

Not expecting any sort of reaction, the young hunter was shocked when the dog suddenly sat up, stared at him intently, and emitted a soft growl. Then to Dean's amazement, the animal shot him a very human Sam-like look of disdain before hopping off the far side of the bed and disappearing from sight.

"Man, how can a dog make me feel like such a jerk? 'Cause he's not just any dog, stupid! And now I'm talking to myself."

Dean slid on his stomach across the bed Sammy had just vacated and peeked over the edge.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry. C'mon, man, I was just thinking of Bobby's old dog, Shotgun, remember him? That dog was pure evil—at least to me whenever I got too close. Maybe you don't remember since you were only six. Besides he liked you."

The dog turned his body so only his back faced Dean.

_Geez, dog-Sam can be just as pouty as human-Sam when he wants to be._

Seeking to make amends, Dean said, "Hey, c'mon, don't be like this. I said I was sorry, didn't I?" When the dog finally deigned to look at him, he snapped his fingers and continued, "Why don't we . . . uh . . . why don't we go get some breakfast or something?"

He paused as if expecting an answer and then shook his head at the absurdity.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's go get some food."

The word "food" seemed to erase any hard feelings, and Sammy bounded to the door, an eager expression on his face.

WOOF

Figuring a shower could wait, Dean pulled on his clothes from the day before. As he bent over to don his socks and boots, Sammy started to whine and scratch at the door.

"All right, all right—I'm coming. Cool your jets, Lassie."

Dean hurriedly tied his boots, made sure his wallet was in his back pocket, and snatched the car and room keys off the small rickety table by the window. When he opened the motel room door, Sammy raced outside and made a beeline for a row of bushes to the side of the parking lot. Once there, he lifted his back leg and relieved himself. When he finished, he trotted back over to Dean, who stood by the Impala looking a little dumbfounded.

"Oh, hey, sorry—shoulda thought of that."

_I am so gonna have a year's worth of teasing material after this._

Dean opened the passenger door of the car and was just about to tell Sammy to jump inside when he hesitated.

"Wait a minute, stay here and I'll be right back." He shut the car door and rushed back to the motel room returning a couple of minutes later carrying two used towels from the bathroom. Dean opened the car door and spread the towels over the seat.

Satisfied, he smiled and said, "Gotta protect my baby. Okay, now you can get in."

Once Sammy was settled, Dean slid into the driver's seat, set the engine to rumbling, and pulled out of the parking lot. Turning left, he headed up the road toward the small town they'd passed through last night. Hearing a noise from the seat next to him, Dean turned his head to see Sammy rubbing his nose up against the side window.

"Oh, gross. Dude, you're getting dog snot all over the windows."

Sammy looked at him wistfully and went right back to doing it. In addition, he scratched lightly at the window handle and added a little whine.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean leaned to the right and rolled the window halfway down. "There—ya happy now?" he grumbled as he watched Sammy stick his head out the window and sniff eagerly at the air rushing past the vehicle. The dog's ears flapped wildly in the wind.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulled into Billy's Homestead Family Restaurant which, even at this early hour, was doing a whopping business. Apparently, the good citizens of Webster Creek, Ohio, loved their breakfast.

"All right. I'll be back," he gently elbowed the dog in the shoulder, "You even think of peeing in the Impala I'm taking you to the pound."

Dean's snarky comment earned him another disdainful look and growl and he found himself chuckling as he headed for the restaurant. A small bell tinkled when he opened the door, and Dean felt the weight of a hundred eyes all settle on him. He resisted the urge to fidget uncomfortably. A harried-looking hostess approached him moments later.

"Just one, dear?"

"Huh?"

"Is it just you this morning?"

"Uh, no—I mean, yeah, it's just me, but I need an order to go."

"Oh, okay then. Here's a menu. Why don't you have a seat at the counter and Martha will take your order once you know what you want." She handed him a sticky menu and turned her attention to a family of six who'd entered behind him.

Spying an empty seat at the far end of the counter, Dean sauntered over and sat down. Before he even had a chance to open the menu or say anything, the waitress, presumably Martha, turned over the brown stoneware mug over and filled it to the brim with hot coffee.

"I'll be back for your order," she tossed off before dashing away.

He found the smell of the fragrant coffee too much to resist so Dean picked up the mug and drank, relishing both the taste and the jolt of caffeine. No wonder the place was so busy; they had the best coffee he'd tasted in a long while. Judging from the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen, the food must be pretty good too. With a sigh, Dean opened the menu.

_Now—just what __**do**__ you order off the menu for a dog—a giant dog who just happens to be your geeky, somewhat health-conscious younger brother?_


	3. Putting the Puppy Dog Eyes to Work

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean returned to the car some fifteen minutes later, bag of food in hand. He placed the bag on the passenger side floor. Sammy immediately stuck his nose in the bag, sniffing with the force of a vacuum cleaner.

"Hey! Head out of the bag, beast. We'll be back to the motel soon enough. I brought you a double order of Corned Beef Hash." Dean sipped from his extra large to-go cup, again marveling at the smooth taste of the coffee as he backed out of the parking space. Once the car was in motion, Sammy went back to sticking his head out the window, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Back at the room, Dean opened Sammy's Styrofoam container and placed it on the floor before grabbing his own and sitting down at the little table. He inhaled appreciatively as he opened the lid, revealing his Apple Cinnamon Pancakes with a side of sausage. He poured the two little containers of maple syrup over it all, and as he did with almost every meal, Dean tucked in with great enthusiasm.

After several bites, he looked down to see how Sammy was enjoying his Corned Beef Hash. He didn't expect to see the dog staring back at him with full blown puppy dog eyes engaged. A soft whine reached his ears as the dog shifted his gaze between Dean's Styrofoam container and his face.

"What?" he mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.

The whine grew louder and Sammy lifted a front paw in the air.

"Hey, you've got your own food!" Dean pointed to the dish on the floor.

Sammy looked at said container and let out a snarl.

Dean rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, for crying out loud. So you're not gonna eat that?" He shoveled in another mouthful of pancake and hunk of sausage.

The puppy dog eyes returned full force and the elder Winchester caved, putting his container of food on the floor, grumbling under his breath all the while.

Sammy, tail wagging, dived into the coveted breakfast.

"Well, while you finish MY breakfast, I'm gonna go take a shower."

When Dean pulled back the shower curtain a bit later, he jumped a foot when he saw the dog staring back at him. Uncomfortable with the dog's intent look, he instinctively wrapped the plastic shower curtain around himself while reaching for a towel.

"Now what?" He saw Sammy's eyes flick to the toilet and then back. "What—you have to go out?" The big brown floppy dog cocked his head to the side but didn't move except to shift his eyes again.

Frustrated, the young hunter slung the too skimpy towel around his hips and stepped out of the tub. "So you don't have to go out. You ate. Dogs don't shower. So—what else could it . . . be?" Finally, Dean's brain kicked in and he put two and two together, "You want water, right?"

WOOF

"So why don't you just drink from the toilet? That's water, isn't it?"

This time Sammy's growl rivaled Stephen King's Cujo.

If Dean hadn't been hanging on to the towel around his hips for dear life, he would have raised both hands in the air in surrender. "Okay, okay—no drinking from the toilet. I get it."

He stalked back into the main room, mumbling, "So what can I use for a bowl?" His eyes immediately fell up on the Styrofoam containers, one now empty and pretty much licked clean. "Yahtzee!" He snatched up the square piece of Styrofoam and marched back into the bathroom where he filled it with water and sat it on the floor. Assured that Sammy would be busy for a minute or two, Dean moved back to the main room, dropped the towel, and hurriedly pulled on his boxers and jeans, not caring that he was still damp from the shower.

When Sammy loped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, beads of water dripping off his chin, Dean was fully clothed and stretched out on his back on the bed, arms pillowing his head. Seeing the dog, he said, "So, what should we do now?"

The dog grunted and hopped up on the opposite bed. Turning in a circle three or four times, he eventually plopped down and curled into a ball, closing his eyes with a sigh of momentary contentment.

"A nap? Oh—well—I guess a nap sounds good," mumbled Dean. With no one to talk to and little else to do besides dreaded research, he closed his eyes also and drifted off to sleep almost as quickly as the dog.

TBC . . .


	4. Dingle  Barry

_Dean stared down the barrel of a gun—a bigger-than-life gun, shiny with iridescent gun oil and aimed directly at his heart—a deadly weapon that was firmly held in his younger brother's hand. He knew there was no turning back as those infinite ink black, soulless eyes stared malevolently back at him. Time seemed to stand still as he heard the grim snick of the trigger being pulled. In that time warp instant, he could even see the bullet leave the barrel and speed in his direction. The projectile impacted with a tremendous thud, painfully tearing into his shoulder with ruthless abandon, destroying flesh and muscle in its path. Nearly destroying all faith and hope lingering within the man's soul as well._

_And then he was falling. Falling forever until cold, dank water roughly greeted his back and then mercilessly closed over his head. The pain in his shoulder exploded, expanded until it clung to every part of his body. He gasped, immediately choking on the sinuous, slimy water that poured down his throat._

The elder Winchester moaned lightly in his sleep as the nightmare held him firmly in its agonizing, unrelenting grip. He tossed and turned, thrashing at the blankets that suddenly became the water from his dream.

Even caught in the throes of the nightmare, Dean soon felt a warm presence stretch out by his side. His subconscious and hunter's finely tuned instinct told him it was a comfortable and safe presence, and the nightmare eased its talon-sharp hold and receded, fading away to nothing faster than it had descended to torment him. His breathing regulated, and he slid back into restful slumber.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean awoke some time later to incessant barking.

_Hey, can somebody shut that dog up?_

It took a few seconds for him to process that it was HIS dog . . . well, brother . . . making all the noise.

Lifting his head from the pillow, Dean cleared his throat and croaked, "Sam, shut up!"

The enthusiastically floppy dog paused for a moment and then resumed the racket, jumping up on Dean's bed as he did so.

"Seriously, Sammy, be quiet! People are gonna hear you, and I doubt the manager's gonna like the idea of a dog in here."

As if on cue, a loud banging sounded on the door.

Dean let out a loud sigh and ran a palm over his face. "And there he is. Stay right there—don't move!" ordered Dean, as he slid out of bed.

The older Winchester opened the door to find the short, scrawny manager on the other side. The man's wispy gray hair fluttered in every direction and beady washed out eyes blinked rapidly behind thick-framed glasses. For all the world, the man looked like some kind of weird bird.

"MR. Wayne, I've had reports that you have . . . a . . . a dog . . . in here. THAT is strictly against our policy here at the motel. After all, we have standards to maintain." The pomposity in the man's voice rivaled that of long ago aristocracy.

Dean's gaze flickered around the creepy room. _Standards? Yeah, right._

"Yeah, listen, Mr.—" he let his voice trail off in question.

"Dingle. Barry Dingle."

The joke was way too easy, and Dean felt it bubbling up in the back of his throat. Determined to remain pleasant, however, he ruthlessly bit it back, nearly swallowing his tongue at the unexpected sensation of stifling his trademark snark.

Adopting his sweetest, most innocent be-just-like-my-brother-Sam expression, Dean said, "Right. Mr. Dingle. Barry. You see, my brother and I—we kinda—well, we found this poor puppy abandoned by the side of the road, right? And my brother, you see, he's SUCH an animal . . . animal lover, I mean. So we couldn't leave that poor little guy behind. Don't worry; we'll be taking him with us—just as soon as we finish up our business here."

From behind him there came a soft, piteous whine and yip—a forlorn, abandoned, purely-puppy dog sound.

_That's right, Sammy, lay it on thick._ Dean barely kept his grin in check.

Barry Dingle sniffed down his long, prominent nose. "I'm sorry, MR. Wayne. We simply cannot allow a dog to stay in the room. There might be . . . damages."

Feeling his blood pressure climb a notch, Dean cajoled, "Look, how about . . . how about I pay a little . . . extra?" He reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty dollar bill, and waved it under the manager's nose.

Dingle huffed at the man in front of him and wiped at nonexistent specks of lint from the front of his shirt. "Are you trying to _bribe_ me, MR. Wayne?"

"That's the general idea, MR. Dingle." Dean growled—his blood pressure kicking up another two notches.

Barry looked slyly at him and then at the money in his hand. "I think perhaps I could be . . . persuaded . . . with a little more incentive."

Dean pulled another $20 from his wallet and added it to the bill already in his hand. When Dingle merely raised a supercilious eyebrow, he added yet another $20, which was accompanied this time by a deeply annoyed human growl and an increasingly red face as his blood pressure reached a new high. He shoved the money into the manager's hand.

Realizing he'd pushed his luck as far as it was going to go, Barry Dingle tucked the money away in his pocket. Clearing his throat, he said in a prissy voice, "Fine. I suppose the dog can stay. You'd better keep him quiet though." With that, Dingle spun on his haughty heel and practically skipped away.

_What an ass._

The young hunter stopped just short of slamming the motel room door. Returning to the bed, he shot a grouchy look at the dog. "See! I told you to be quiet. You so owe me ninety bucks when you're Sammy again. Don't think I won't collect either!"

_WOOF_

Dean looked inside his nearly empty wallet. "Geez, I see a few games of pool in my future tonight."

When Sammy-dog whined and pawed at Dean's leg, he muttered, "Don't have much of choice here, Sammy. Not if you want to eat for the next few days."

The dog stood and stretched before hopping off the bed. He padded over to the door and sat.

Glancing at his watch, Dean saw that it was around 2:30 in the afternoon. Boredom was rapidly setting in now that he was awake and human Sam wasn't around to torment, or at least have a conversation with. He looked over at Sammy. "So what should we do now, oh furry one?" He nervously jogged his leg up and down while biting at his fingernail. "What exactly do people do with dogs?"

After giving it a little thought, he snapped his fingers. "Got it! I see people at parks all the time with their dogs, right?" He frowned slightly. "Not sure what the hell they do there, but . . . let's go to the park."

His suggestion was met with great exuberance. Well, great exuberance by one of them at least.


	5. Collars, Leashes, and Little Blue Bags

Dean made sure Sammy was safely tucked into the Impala with the passenger side window partially down before he slid into the driver's seat and started the powerful engine with a quick twist of his wrist. The rumbling heartbeat of the Impala vibrated comfortably throughout the interior. He cast his mind back to his earlier trip to the diner, trying to remember if he saw any kind of park on his way. If he remembered right, there was one on the opposite side of the street, just yards past the diner.

His memory proved correct, and he pulled into the narrow blacktopped parking lot a few minutes later, easing the big, shiny vehicle into one of the few empty spaces. Turning off the car and pocketing the keys, Dean quickly rounded the front end and jerked the passenger door open, allowing the dog to hop out. Sammy immediately started sniffing vigilantly at the ground.

"C'mon, mutt. Let's go do . . . something."

The giant, brown dog stopped in his tracks and stood still, wounded eyes trained on Dean. His oddly expressive eyebrows were quirked into what Dean swore was a frown.

"What?" the oldest Winchester brother's face now wore a frown of its own. "C'mon, let's go."

Sammy sat down on his butt and refused to budge, no matter how much pleading Dean did.

Dean ran a frustrated hand over his face and growled, "Damn it, what's wrong?"

The dog lifted one side of his mouth in a fake snarl and for whatever reason, Dean suddenly understood the problem.

He sighed deeply. "I get it now. You're mad 'cause I called you a mutt, right?" he grumbled. "Man, dude, you can't even take a joke when you're a dog!"

Sammy continued to scrutinize him with those damned eyes.

"Look—I'm sorry, okay?"

The dog stood and hesitated a second before happily trotting to his side, and Dean grunted.

_And people have dogs for pets why?_

They'd only taken a few steps onto the verdant grass when a scrawny, bespectacled man scurried near.

"Psst. Hey, mister."

Not realizing at first the salutation was directed at him, Dean didn't spin around until it was repeated.

"Hey what?"

"You might want to get a collar and leash on your dog before Chief Tink catches you."

"Chief Tink?" Dean snorted.

"Yeah, Police Chief August Tink. He loves to fine people who don't follow the leash law here in town. Says it's almost more lucrative than that speed trap they have over on Tupperton Street."

The taller man looked around and then stated confidently, "Ahh, I think we'll be fine."

Eli Tine shrugged and retreated a couple of steps. "Suit yourself. It's your $100."

"A hundred bucks?!" Dean thought of his nearly empty wallet and cringed.

"Uh oh. Speak of the devil. Here comes the Chief now. Good luck, buddy." Eli hurried away, never once looking back.

"Well, well—what have we here? I believe I see a dog without a leash. One without a collar too for that matter."

Dean swiveled around to look at the man in question and barely kept his mouth from dropping open. Police Chief August Tink was at least 6' 8" and broad, very broad. The buttons on his uniform shirt strained across his humongous barrel chest. Not one to be intimidated, especially when it came to all things law enforcement, Dean straightened his shoulders and stiffened his spine, swallowing any trepidation he might feel at the guy's size.

"You do realize, boy, that we have strict leash laws here in Sawyerville, right?"

The smaller man flinched at being called 'boy' but decided to let it go. "Uh, no . . . no—sir—I didn't realize that."

"I normally issue tickets for this kind of thing. Any reason a'tall that I shouldn't give you one?"

"Well, you see, Chief, my . . . my brother and I just found this dog by the side of the road last night." He gestured and glanced down at the dog at his feet. He did a double take, eyes widening. Sammy was . . . holy crap . . . Sammy was . . . licking . . . himself. Dean felt his cheeks turn red and he instinctively stepped in front of the dog to block the police officer's view of what he was doing. Dog or not, he was still his brother after all. He cleared his throat and continued, "We found him last night and I . . . I've never had a dog before so . . ."

Tink eyeballed the young man before him, studying him from head to toe. Deep sincerity, mixed with something else—something indefinable— shown brightly in his eyes and the police chief, in a rare moment of kindness, found himself relenting. "Tell you what—if you go get him on a leash right this second, I'll forget the citation."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean nodded, "I can do that. Where . . . where do I get one?"

"Try Sugarland Drug. Just up the road a piece."

Dean spun on his heel and called for Sammy to come with him. They'd just gone a few steps when Chief Tink called out, "Oh, and son, ya might want to remember too, you gotta clean up after 'im. Better get some of those plastic baggies."

_Clean up after him? What the hell do I have to clean up?_ It took a second for Tink's meaning to sink in, and Dean hung his head, chin almost resting on his chest. _Oh, that's just gross. Sammy, you really owe me after this._

The trip to Sugarland Drugstore did indeed yield both a collar and leash for Sammy as well as a box of the little blue plastic bags to clean up dog waste. Unfortunately, the purchase basically wiped out what was left of the money in Dean's wallet. Unless there was money in one of the duffel bags back at the room, dinner was going to be a non-existent affair.

Dean and Sammy found themselves back at the park a short time later with the dog now sporting his nifty new collar and leash. Dean took hold of the leash handle, and they began to meander down the path circling the large manmade pond. After two turns around the water, Dean stopped and muttered, "Damn, dude, walking you on a leash is incredibly boring. There's gotta be something better we can do." Dean groaned and pulled another blue plastic bag from his pants pocket when he saw Sammy dog squat yet again. "Yeah, there's gotta be something better WE can do. What is this—like your third time? I think you're doing this on purpose just to get to me."

He had just disposed of the waste-filled baggy in the trash can when he heard a female voice coo behind him. "Oh, what a sweet dog! He's so adorable."

The older Winchester sibling turned and found the owner of the voice. A gorgeous blonde in a tight white track suit and red sports bra stood beaming, looking first at Sammy and then at Dean. "He must be so very cuddly—all big and floppy like that," she squeaked. "He looks like a teddy bear! Can I pet him?"

Before Dean could answer one way or another, she leaned down and began scratching Sammy energetically behind the ears. Baby talk flowed from her mouth in a steady stream. A look of pure bliss settled on Sammy's face, and Dean could have sworn he moaned.

Still fussing over Sammy and his thick soft fur, the girl glanced up at Dean with a winsome grin. She batted her eyelashes and giggled. He smiled one of his patented Winchester charm smiles. The day had just gotten a lot more interesting.


	6. One Squishy Sock

"Hey, I'm Dean."

The blonde stopped fussing, cooing, and baby-talking over Sammy and straightened to her full, rather impressive height. Offering him a blindingly white smile, she said, "Well, hello Dean. I'm Zoe."

"Come here often." Dean almost rolled his eyes at his own lame, and extremely trite, pick up line. _Gotta get some new material goin', Winchester._

"Oh, sure. I come here like every day. Commune with nature, stuff like that. It's relaxing."

Dean nodded his head in faux agreement. In the end, he ended up flirting with the blonde for a good 15 minutes before she reluctantly murmured something about meeting her boyfriend and hurried away. Disappointment tugged at him for a few seconds.

He looked down at Sammy and asked, "So what do we do now, Fido?" From the thoughtful look on the dog's face, Dean almost expected to get a completely lucid and logical answer to his question. Shrugging his shoulders beneath his leather jacket, he muttered, "C'mon," and tugged gently at the leash.

The elder Winchester let Sammy take the lead, following as the dog meandered in various directions around the park; directions dictated by the dog's continuously active nose.

Traipsing over ground made soft and spongy by recent rains, they headed down a small hill toward a copse of trees. Dean chuckled and said, "Hey, I should just start calling you Hoover—you know, like the vacuum cleaner."

It was after quite a bit of aimless wandering and a fifth woman stopping him with a cry of "Oh, what a cute dog!" that Dean came to a startling realization. Dogs were real chick magnets. Young or old, they were inexorably drawn to the dog and consequently him.

He immediately shared his observation with Sammy in very Dean-like fashion. "Hey, check that out, Sammy. You're a chick magnet! Too bad you can't hang on to some of that magic after the spell wears off and you're human again." He laughed at his own joke. Sammy pricked his ears but otherwise ignored him.

The pair was just rounding the large playground full of slides and swings intent on making their way back to the Impala when they were stopped for a sixth time. A gorgeous petite redhead cooed nonsensical words at the dog and dropped to her knees before him. After a few seconds, Dean cleared his throat and introduced himself as he'd done numerous other times that afternoon.

"Hi, I'm Josie. Sorry about that, but—really—who can resist that face!"

Relaxing his stance and putting forth his best smile, Dean eased into his flirtatious self, cracking a few one-line jokes in between complimenting the redhead on certain aspects of her . . . personality. Forgetting that he was in a park rather than some dark, smoky bar— with an impatient dog who was in reality his younger brother—time slipped away as Dean worked his charm for all its worth. That is, he forgot until he suddenly felt wet warm liquid soaking his ankle and running down into his shoe. He looked down and was astonished to see Sammy, his back leg raised, peeing on his foot.

"Dude! Y-y-y-you just peed—PEED—on my foot!" Dean's normally deep, raw honey voice was almost a high-pitched squeal.

Josie giggled. "Oh, dear, I guess he doesn't like being ignored, does he?"

Trying to ignore the now squishy sensation of his sock inside his shoe, Dean muttered, "Yeah, I guess not. Apparently, it's time for us to go."

"You're not gonna be too mad at him, are you?"

"Nah. It's okay. I never could stay mad at Sammy. Not for long anyway," Dean answered in a resigned tone.

"It's no wonder—he's so cute and everything. It's something about those eyes."

_Yeah, I'll give him cute—wait about three more days until he's human again! Then I'll give him cute—right upside his head. And don't even mention those eyes, damn it. _

Dean's internal grumbling was interrupted by Josie saying, "Okay, I'll see you and Sammy here tomorrow morning then? I'll bring the coffee."

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good."

Josie waved and bounced away.

Turning away from the redhead's delightful bounce, he focused his attention back onto his brother-turned-dog. "Oh, Sammy, you SO owe me now. You just better be ready when you're back to normal."

The dog appeared to be grinning—no, practically laughing—at him, and Dean gave him the evil eye and a growl of his own. "Let's go."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Back at the motel room, the hunter quickly changed his socks and shoes after thoroughly washing the offended foot. All the while he huffed and puffed, muttering that Sammy should be grateful that it was an older, nearly worn out pair of boots he'd ruined.

Once back to being completely shod, Dean went in search of cash, first raiding Sam's wallet—which was empty—and then similarly raiding his duffel bag, hoping his brother still kept an emergency ten dollar bill tucked away somewhere. He crowed in delight when he found it in a zippered pocket. Dean quickly made some calculations in his head. He'd go to that fast food joint down the street and grab Sammy two $0.99 burgers and a small Coke for himself. With the remaining $7, he'd use $2 to buy himself a beer at the bar—_don't want to stick out like a sore thumb_—and $5 as seed money to begin hustling pool. Hopefully, that $5 would turn into more—a lot more. Pocketing the crisp bill, he assured Sam with a wink he'd pay him back.

"All right. I'm gonna go get you some food. Don't . . . do . . . anything while I'm gone."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Shortly thereafter, Dean watched as the dog finished up his two burgers, laughing as Sammy nosed aside the lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes with a sniff of disgust. "You wouldn't be disgusted by that lettuce and stuff if you were human. In fact, you actually seem to LIKE it." He gave an exaggerated shudder.

"All right. I'm gonna head out to the bar—see if I can't get us some money." _I still can't believe I'm talking to him like he's gonna answer. I really, really need that beer._

With another worry-filled admonishment to the dog to behave, Dean exited the motel room and slid into the Impala.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean palmed his beer bottle and took a swig, looking down at the pile of money resting on the edge of the pool table. His hustle was going pretty good tonight, having already turned the $5 into $50 in the short time he'd been there. Eyeing the ball pattern currently on the table, he leaned over, lining up his shot. He grunted in satisfaction as his lead ball tap-clicked into its intended targets, sending them spinning across green felt. Dean heard his less-than-sober opponents groan and smiled when the $50 turned into $100. This had been a make-or-break game, double or nothing.

Scooping up his money and shoving it deep into his jean pocket, Dean announced, "I think I'm gonna take a little breather, gentlemen." He sauntered over to the bar and dropped onto one of the stools. As Dean drank the rest of his one and only beer, he contemplated whether or not to go a few more rounds with his two inebriated marks. He surreptitiously glanced over at the two men, taking in their size and state of agitation. _Nah._ He shook his head slightly. The $100 felt good in his pocket and would get them at least through tomorrow. Besides there was always tomorrow night; he could come back then and hustle some more. With a sigh, Dean thought about grabbing a bite to eat before immediately deciding against it. Weariness felt more pressing at the moment than hunger. He thunked the empty bottle down on the bar and headed for the door.

Dean didn't get far. Halfway to the Impala, he heard the scuff of shoes against pebbled-strewn blacktop. Immediately swinging around, he eyed the two hulking guys from the bar.

_Ah, you gotta be kidding me? All this over a hundred bucks?_

He ducked when the one on the left threw the first punch.


	7. Dirk or Dick

The lock softly clicked and the handle turned on the motel room door. Dean stepped quietly inside and was surprised, yet oddly happy, to be greeted by the dog as he pushed the door shut behind him. It struck him then just how much he was actually missing Sam's—human Sam's—company and companionship. The older man couldn't wait for the pixie dust prank to wear off in three more days.

He reached down and patted the dog's head, hissing a little as his sore knuckles complained. "Hey, Sammy dog, didn't have to wait up for me." The big brown dog made a beeline for the door, scratching a paw anxiously at the aging wood. "Oh. Well, then again maybe you did." He let Sammy out the door and followed, waiting patiently as the dog watered the bushes. After taking a deep breath of crisp night air, Dean ushered the dog back into the room. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Don't know about you, but I'm done in for the night."

Stepping around the perpetually happy animal, whose tail was wagging so hard his entire body shook, Dean slipped out of his leather jacket and tossed it across the back of the nearby chair before easing himself gingerly down on the edge of the mattress. He'd handled the two goons from the bar without much difficulty, but they had managed to get in a few lucky jabs, his throbbing side and jaw were painful proof. His headache was the cherry on top of this dreadful sundae.

Bending over, he pulled off his boots and socks, wiggling his now-free toes on the threadbare patterned carpet, sighing with what distinctly sounded like pleasure. Dean flopped back on the lumpy bed, debating whether or not he had the energy to undress properly and climb beneath the covers. Before his weary mind could conjure a coherent flicker of an answer, however, he jumped sky high and let out a resounding yelp. Jackknifing back into a sitting position, Dean stared in absolute astonishment, and not a little horror, as the dog continued to lick madly at his toes. He squirmed as the rough tongue glided over his sensitive—and yes, damn it, ticklish—feet, particularly his toes. Dean barely bit back the urge to automatically giggle. He quickly pulled the affronted appendages out of reach.

"Dude! I . . . I know you're . . . you're . . . a dog and all. But you _are_ still my brother! That's just . . . just . . . gross. Completely and utterly gross."

He eyed the dog's lolling pink tongue with suspicion as he put his feet back down on the floor. Dean pointed at the dog and muttered, "You just stay right where you are, dog breath!"

The sleepy hunter stood, rapidly stripping down to his black boxers and gray t-shirt. Dean tossed his dirty clothes in the corner before slipping under the covers on his bed. Once tucked in, he mumbled, "So—think you can you quit messin' with me now and just go to bed?" Dean rolled over and prepared to do just that, slipping his hand under his pillow as he spoke. He was surprised to feel the soft thump as Sammy dog hopped up on the bed.

"Hey, dude, I meant that you get on your own bed!"

Sammy dog merely grunted and sighed mightily as he curled up at the foot of the bed and made himself completely comfortable.

For once knowing when he was on the losing end of an argument, Dean murmured good-naturedly, "So that's how it's gonna be then, huh? Fine. Sleep there. No complaining though if I accidentally kick you in the middle of the night." _You ginormous floppy-eared pain in the ass._

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The next day dawned overcast and somewhat gloomy, anemic sunlight choosing to peek shyly through the clouds only intermittently. A stiff breeze blew out of the north, putting to bed yesterday's milder weather. The downturn in climate, however, didn't stop the older Winchester brother from looking forward to his meeting with Josie in the park. He showered and dressed with considerable speed considering his residual soreness from the night before.

With a final glance in the mirror, Dean ran his hand over his freshly shaven cheeks and then through his still damp hair, leaving it softly spiked just the way he liked it. Stepping back into the main room, he grabbed his black jacket off the bed, slipped it on over his long-sleeved green flannel shirt, and flipped up the collar. Picking up the dog's collar and leash, Dean called to the dog, "You ready to go there, Sammy? Coffee with Josie and then we'll stop and get food on the way back. How's that sound?"

Dean snapped the collar and leash into place as the dog emitted a soft woof of agreement. He found himself whistling some nameless tune as they headed for the Impala.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"Hey, you came!" Josie's soft voice was filled with pleasure. "And here's sweetie pie Sammy again too."

"Of course, I did. Who can resist the promise of hot coffee and a gorgeous woman to drink it with?"

Josie smiled at the compliment. "Here's your coffee. I took a chance and just left it black."

"Perfect."

Dean took the heavy-duty coffee-filled cup she held out, appreciating its heat when he wrapped the fingers of his left hand around it. He sipped the hot, rich brew carefully, hoping to avoid a burned tongue.

"I brought us a little something to go with the coffee too. A couple of pastries from the Brown Sugar Bakery. There's even a little treat for Sammy. " She shook the little white bag she carried in the hand not holding her own coffee. "Should we sit? Or maybe we can walk near the pond."

"Sure, let's walk." Holding Sammy's leash loosely in one hand, Dean continued to drink his coffee as he and Josie strolled near the water. The hunter found himself relaxing, enjoying the woman's company more than he'd even thought possible.

The attack when it came was swift and totally unexpected. Dean was hit by a juggernaut from behind and propelled forward with great force. Without meaning to, he dropped the dog's leash. His full coffee cup went flying, drops of hot liquid geysering everywhere. The hunter managed to stay on his feet, barely, and was just regaining his balance enough to spin around when a ham-like fist plowed squarely into his face. Through the sudden ringing in his ears, Dean could hear Josie screaming at someone, presumably the as-yet-unseen juggernaut.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean finally got a good look at his attacker. The man was huge; there was no other way to describe it. He was taller than Dean, taller even than human Sam. And he was wide—not fat—just incredibly wide. The stranger's large shaved-bald head seemed to rest directly on his massive shoulders, having virtually no neck of which to speak. It gave the man the appearance of a bull—an enraged and crazed bull.

"What the friggin' hell?" exclaimed Dean.

Before he could get anymore out, the giant plowed into him, wide muscular shoulders impacting with Dean's diaphragm without mercy. His breath whooshed out in a painful rush. He landed on his back with a thud, the behemoth landing on top of him.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN' WITH MY WOMAN!"

Unable to breathe because of the blow to his diaphragm and the constricting force of the giant on top of him, Dean could only gasp in answer.

Finding the gasp to be an unacceptable answer, the man slammed a fist into Dean's mouth, splitting his lip.

"SHE'S MINE AND YOU. CAN'T. HAVE. HER." The giant punctuated his last four words with fierce punches.

"Dirk! Dirk, stop it! Damn it, you're NOT my boyfriend anymore!" Josie stood frozen, watching the struggle before her.

Working his arms between their bodies, Dean heaved with all his might, managing to unbalance Dirk just slightly. He was just about attempt to slide out from under the man when he heard the dog growl. It was enough of a distraction for him to make his move, and Dean extricated himself quickly, rolling and gaining his feet in one effortless move.

Dean heard the dog yelp and took a step forward, only to have Dirk's tree-trunk leg slam into his ankles, taking his feet right out from under him once more. He hit the ground on his left side, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. Before he could make another move, Dean was being lifted like a rag doll, broad hands fisted in the front of his jacket. The landscape spun and dipped wildly, making him a bit dizzy.

_Damn, for such a big guy, he's scary fast. And shit is he strong!_

Then he was flying through the air. Expecting to slam into the hard ground, Dean was shocked when he landed in the pond instead. His breath seized as the cold water closed over his head with a mighty splash. Fighting the urge to suck in a pained lungful of air, Dean waited for his momentum to slow, becoming increasingly disoriented because of the darkness and murk. He hung in limbo for a minute or two. Finally some sort of instinct kicked in, and Dean kicked his way upward.

His head finally broke the surface and he pulled in deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow. Dean struck out for the edge of the pond and dry ground, powerful arms cutting easily through the water despite his throbbing shoulder.

Reaching shallow water, the hunter stood on shaky legs and stumbled forward. He immediately looked around for his newest nemesis and spied him just in time to see Dirk draw back his leg and kick Sammy in the side. The dog yelped pitifully.

Dean's vision went crimson with fury. He surged forward at a dead run, reaching Dirk in a matter of seconds. Too busy gearing up for another kick, the behemoth never knew what hit him. Powered by anger, the older Winchester tackled the bigger man, felling him like a Redwood. With a menacing growl, Dean straddled the man and threw several well-placed punches. Before he landed the last, knockout blow, he hissed, "Nobody but nobody hits or kicks my bro . . . I mean, my dog. Just be glad I'm letting you live." The last punch landed with a solid thunk.

He scrambled off the unconscious man and stood shivering, scummy pond water plastering his clothes to his body. Looking down at him with contempt, Dean resisted the urge to add a kick of his own for good measure. Turning, he let out a half-grunt, half chuckle. "Unbelievable. Nearly taken out by a guy named Dirk. Dirk was a real dick, wouldn't you agree, Sammy?"

Dean expected a bark or a whine from his brother-turned-dog. When he didn't hear anything, Dean looked around quizzically. His roaming gaze quickly turned frantic.

Sammy was gone.


	8. Over the River and Through the Woods

I'm so sorry for the delay in updating this story. A few others got in the way. And then my muse decided to take an unwelcome break. I hope everyone enjoys.

* * *

**Don't You Dare Pee in the Impala - Chapter 8**

The young hunter felt his stomach do a slow, sickening somersault when it truly sank in that Sam, the dog—his brother—was really gone. His gaze continued to roam the immediate area. Despite the fairly early hour, on the playground in the distance, a few children played and laughed under the watchful attention of their respective parents. The area near the water—near them—was more secluded and was deserted except for Dean, Josie, and the dick—Dirk—who remained flat on the ground.

"Sam! Sammy!" he called, cupping his hands on each side of his mouth, "uhh, here, boy!" Dean called several more times without results. He spun toward Josie.

"Did you see him? Did you see where he—Sammy—went?"

Josie shook her head. "Uh . . . no . . . I—I was watching you and Dirk."

"Was he hurt?"

"What?"

Worry wormed its way into Dean's stomach, and he frowned. "Sammy! Was he hurt? I saw Dirk kick him. Did . . . did he hurt him? Do anything else to him?"

"N-No. I don't think so. Do you want me to help you look for him?"

"Uh uh. I've got it." Dean started to hurry away, stopping only when Josie's tremulous voice sounded behind him.

"Look—Dean—I'm . . . I'm sorry. You know, for Dirk and everything. I didn't know he'd—"

The hunter waved a dismissive hand at her and moved forward again. "Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. I gotta go." Deciding the best place to start would be the wooded area, Dean headed in that direction.

As he approached the wooded area, the forlorn, cold wind picked up and Dean shivered. His wet clothes clung uncomfortably to his body, further weighing down his limbs already heavy from the recent fight. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, growling out a sinister promise of bad weather to come.

Reaching the tree line, the eldest Winchester brother ducked under some low hanging branches of a tall pine and again cupped his hands around his mouth, calling, "Sam! Here, boy!" Moving deeper into the trees, his eyes scanned the area looking for movement. The sky lit up with flickering blue-white lightning, creating inky, odd-shaped shadows close to the ground. Dean squinted into the gathering gloom but saw nothing. Thunder rumbled again, much closer this time. The imminent storm was about to let loose.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_run run run_

_don't run_

_don't run_

_sniff_

_sniff_

_run_

_hide_

_go back_

_scared_

_mean_

_not _my_ human_

_run run run_

_don't run_

_find _my_ human_

_sniff_

_sniff_

_hey, what's that over there?_

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The rain, when it came was a raging torrent, no tentative warning sprinkles for this storm. Menacing darkness encroached in a blink as the turbulent clouds stalled seemingly right over the town, ready to do their worst.

Dean cringed as lightning flared again and again in the puffy bruised-looking sky. The length of time between the lightning strikes and the accompanying chorus of thunder grew non-existent as the storm settled in for a lengthy visit. Rain lashed relentlessly at the hunter's face as he called for his lost dog—his lost brother—the pleas forfeit in the cannonade of sound generated by the tempest. The deluge quickly turned the ground beneath Dean's feet into a sea of slippery mud—the overhead canopy of brittle leaves doddering past their autumn luster being no match for the fomenting onslaught.

Dean trudged on doing his level best to concentrate on the murky, mottled landscape before him. He wiped the cold, almost viscous, rain from his eyes continuously, but it did little to sharpen his vision.

After a few more ineffectual entreaties, Dean gave up calling for Sam, deciding it was more prudent to wait until the cacophony ended. Until then, he could only hope his eyes would catch a glimpse of something moving in the artificial dusk.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

At the first booming crack of thunder, the big dog dropped to his belly amongst the mixture of dirt, pine needles, and desiccated leaves and let out a soft whimper. As the storm grew in intensity, so did Sammy's fear. He trembled.

_scared_

_run_

_hide_

The rain soaked through his fur, leaving him wet and miserable. But worse was the relentless noise—the loud booms and thumps of thunder and the crackling sizzles as bright white lightning struck in various places, all of which hurt his ears.

_scared_

_lost_

_lost_

_lost_

_scared_

Overwhelmed and not knowing what else to do, the dog threw back his head and howled in despair.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean detoured around a rotting log, just barely avoiding it hidden as it was in the veil of rain. For a split second, as the storm paused to take a breath before continuing its roar, the elder Winchester heard an incongruous sound and he ceased all movement. Cocking his head, Dean listened intently. He recognized that noise. It was a howl! And either this park was plagued by the presence of an undocumented werewolf or it was a dog—Sammy!

The maelstrom then exhaled with a bellow, drowning out the telltale wail, but Dean didn't hesitate. He ran in the direction he thought from which the noise had come, ignoring the uneven and treacherously slippery ground beneath his feet. In his haste to find his brother-turned-dog, Dean missed seeing the small, ragged hole until it was too late. Unable to stop his momentum, he pitched forward, landing hard despite the oozing mud. His splayed hands took the brunt of his weight, his wrists aching from the impact. He missed a face full of gooey muck by a scanty margin.

Mad and cursing at himself for his clumsiness, the hunter slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, wiping ineffectually at the gunk covering his torso before abruptly realizing the copious amount of water falling from the sky could take care of rinsing most of it away. He stayed seated for a moment to catch his breath and took a head-to-toe inventory, relieved that he hadn't done something stupid like knock himself out. It was when he tried to stand, however, that white-hot pain zigzagged up his left leg from an injured ankle, almost sending him straight back to his knees. Balancing on his right leg, he carefully rotated his left foot, hissing as the simple action ignited a fire. Dean didn't think it was broken, but it sure as hell was badly sprained.

Lowering his foot to the ground, Dean cautiously allowed it to bear some of his weight. Biting his lip, he took a couple of steps and felt involuntary tears spring to his eyes at the throbbing agony the abused muscles, tendons, and ligaments were broadcasting along his pain receptors. He roughly, angrily wiped at his eyes, leaving streaks of dark mud across both pale cheeks. Undeterred, the older Winchester brother ignored the pain, bricking it up behind a reinforced wall, and pushed forward.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sammy stopped howling but continued to whine anxiously as the stalled storm battered the region. Shaking, he looked around and began to paw frantically at the ground.

_run?_

_hide?_

_scared_

_hide_

_hide_

_scared_

Succeeding only in flinging around large splatterings of mud, the dog gave up digging at the ground and inched forward, determined to find a place to hide.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The storm had long since ended its cosmic temper tantrum. The lightning surrendered first, while the thunder continued to stomp its feet for a short period of time. The rain, clearly the victor in the climatological battle of wills, only grudgingly halted its downpour from the sky quite some time after that. And now, hours later, the perpetually anemic sun had settled forlornly on the horizon, pushed down by the bullying quarter moon. The temperature had steadily dropped along with the sun.

Dean leaned against a tree and closed his bloodshot eyes, shivering in his still-damp clothes. He'd searched the woods all day and called for the dog till his voice was hoarse, all without success. Still no Sammy. His head was throbbing, keeping time with his still screaming ankle. But, there was no question of him stopping for the night. Dean intended to continue his search, just as soon as he found his way back to the Impala and grabbed a flashlight. And some painkillers. He pushed off the tree with a grunt and limped forward, using the good-sized branch he'd acquired along the way as a cane.

He sensed it was going to be a long night.


	9. A Bit of a Roadblock

The sleek Impala was a welcome sight. It sat alone tucked in the far corner of the parking lot, illuminated only by the rising moon and a smattering of stars. The minute he caught the first glimpse of the shiny, though rain-splattered, midnight-hued paint, Dean felt the memory of his arduous journey temporarily fade. In a way that most people would find strange, the Impala was comfort. It was a metal and chrome security blanket. It, more than anything else, represented home. If he could have, he would have broken into a jog the minute he cleared the tree line. He settled for minutely increasing the speed of his hobble, though not without a low growl of frustration.

Reaching the car, many long minutes later, Dean rested his makeshift cane against the back quarter panel and hop-shuffled to the trunk, extracting the keys from his pocket as he moved. His fingers had just closed around the handle of a flashlight when he heard another car pull into the deserted lot. Dean looked up, squinting to see in the gloom, automatically stiffening when he saw the reflective law enforcement decals on the doors. He bit back a groan when the vehicle pulled behind him and stopped.

Extracting the flashlight, he closed the trunk and placed the large silver-cased light face down on the trunk lid, freeing his hands. Dean waited tensely, silhouetted in the headlights, as the police officer got out of his vehicle and walked toward him.

Brody Ellison cautiously approached the stranger. "Son, this park closes at dusk. May I ask just what you're doing here after dark?" The hulking cop loomed in front of Dean, hand resting on the butt of his gun. He was at least as tall as Sam, but broader. Much broader. His voice matched his build, deep and throaty. Not nearly as comforting as the deep rumble of the Impala.

"I'm not doing anything." Dean had to work hard to keep the sarcasm absent from his voice.

"Well now, this here park has been rather notorious for attracting druggies, dealers, and prostitutes—even in a small town like this—which is why we started closing it from dusk to 7:00 in the morning."

Dean huffed out a breath and ran a hand over his forehead. "I'm not a druggie. Or a dealer. Or a male prostitute out pimping myself."

The cop eyed him from the toes of his boots up to the top of his head, taking in the mud-splattered, threadbare jeans with the holes in the knees and the wrinkled, damp-looking jacket and shirts visible underneath. "What's your name?"

"Wayne. Dean Wayne."

"Okay, Mr. Wayne. So what are you doing here in the park after dark?"

Deciding for once to be straightforward and honest as possible, Dean said, "Actually, I'm looking for my dog. He's lost. Been out here all day looking. Just came back to the car for a flashlight." He pointed to said item which rested on the trunk lid.

"Shit, boy. You think I'm gonna believe such a lame excuse."

"Look, I'm telling you the truth," Dean unthinkingly took a step forward to emphasize his words. "Ahhh!" In the time he'd stood still, Dean's bad ankle had stiffened and his leg betrayed him, crumpling when he tried to put weight on it.

Brody rocked backward in surprise when the man before him started to fall, but his hands shot out, locking around his elbows to support and steady him.

"Hey, easy there, son." Brody's first thought was the man was drunk or high, but he smelled no telltale whiff of alcohol or any other illicit drug. Twenty years of experience on the job had given him an instinct about such things, and something told him this guy wasn't impaired in that kind of way. He did, however, look a little shaky in addition to being unsteady on his feet.

Dean resisted the urge to shove the cop away and grudgingly accepted his help in keeping him on his feet. Once he was balanced, Dean muttered, "I'm okay—I'm okay. My—my ankle—I twisted it this morning out in the woods."

Ellison looked down to see that the younger man was indeed favoring his left leg. Another full length perusal had him finally noticing the smears of mud and a variety of scratches on the man's pale and weary-looking face. His hands too sported several scratches. Brody actually was starting to believe what this guy was telling him, but he still felt a small smidgen of skepticism. "So—you're telling me you've been out searching for a dog in the woods all day on that ankle?"

"Yeah. Used that as a cane." Dean cocked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the large branch he'd leaned against the car.

"All this for a dog?" Brody arched his right eyebrow.

"Look—it's my brother—my brother's—dog. Sam left him with me while he went over to Lally for the day to take care of some business. He's due to return the day after tomorrow. I HAVE to find Sammy before then."

"Wait. Your brother's name is Sam? And the dog's name is Sammy?"

Dean silently cursed his slip of the tongue. Exhaustion, the beginnings of mild dehydration, and pain were taking their toll.

"Uhh—family joke. When we were kids, every pet we ever got we named Sammy. He just kinda kept that going when he got the dog a few weeks ago." Dean felt like he was rambling and snapped his mouth closed.

Brody nodded, finding himself actually liking this kid. "And how did the dog come to be lost?"

The elder Winchester rubbed his hands over his face, smearing more dirt across his cheeks and quickly gave the cop a sanitized version of what happened with Dirk.

Peering closely at Dean's face while the man shared his story, Brody could now see some bruising underneath all the scratches and dirt. He also saw the man shiver as the chilly wind suddenly picked up, rattling the near-bare branches of the trees.

Dean finished with, ". . . so he got scared and took off for the woods. I have to find him. My brother'll never forgive me when he comes back. I just needed a flashlight so I could go back and keep looking." Dean reached for the light resting on his trunk.

"Now you know I can't let you stay here through the night."

Dean expected that answer and his fingers tightened on the metal flashlight.

"Dammit, I have to keep looking!"

"I know you want to. But, son, it just ain't safe to be out in those woods in the pitch dark. A flashlight's gonna do you no bit of good. And you could very well bang yourself up even worse than you are now. Then where will you be?"

"But . . ."

"Tell you what—you look about done in. Why don't you go on over to the diner and get something to eat—some coffee to warm up, tell whichever waitress you get that Brody Ellison sent you and I'll pick up your tab. Eat, take care-a that ankle, get some rest. The park opens at 7:00 in the morning. I'll be here to unlock the gate and I'll even help you look since my shift will be over. Deal?"

The throbbing in Dean's ankle and head was now merciless. He looked at the cop's implacable countenance and knew he had no choice but to agree. At least for now. He felt momentary defeat settle on his shoulders. "Deal."

Brody stepped around the younger man and grabbed the makeshift cane, handing it over with a good-natured warning. "Just remember—we patrol the area throughout the night. I don't wanna see this classic beauty anywhere near here until morning. Got it?"

Defeat settled in a little more comfortably. "Yeah, yeah—I got it." Grabbing the flashlight, Dean waited for the police office to move his car, and then hobbled to the driver's side and slid into his seat. A glance in the review mirror told him that the cop, Brody Ellison, was watching him. He started the car, backed up, and headed toward the parking lot exit. As Dean turned right and pulled away from the park, a final glance in the mirror showed him Ellison pulling the gate closed and locking it.

With a grunt of frustration, Dean slapped a palm down on the steering wheel and punched the accelerator down just a little harder.


	10. Newly Found Friends and Irksome Enemies

After the storm ended, Sammy crept warily from the hiding place he'd found. Nose to ground, he sniffed, hoping to catch a familiar scent. Hoping for a clue as to the whereabouts of his human. But while the smells pulled in were a smorgasbord of delight to his canine nose, the one scent he was looking for had been cleansed away by the copious amount of rain.

Forever curious, Sammy dog was intrigued by those other scents and he decided to follow his nose across the terrain and explore—his foray leading him deeper into the trees. A few times he startled some small woodland creatures—a couple of rabbits, a chipmunk, and two moles—from their various hiding places and took great delight when they each engaged him in an exuberant game of catch-me-if-you-can before darting into holes or creases too small for him to follow. A squirrel too crossed Sammy's path and led him on a merry chase, finally racing a few feet up a tree before turning around and chittering a good scold at his big, behemoth pursuer. Sammy sat at the base of the tree and grinned up at his talkative new friend. Once the squirrel climbed further up and disappeared, Sammy, outrageously disappointed, trained his nose back to the ground.

_sniff_

_sniff_

_sniff_

_Heeey, what's this?_

The dog pawed at the small pile of unidentifiable goo he'd just discovered. It's noxious odor a tantalizing lure. Sammy gave in to an instinctual urge and flopped down, belly up, on top of the gooey pile and began to roll back and forth. He grunted and groaned ecstatically, four paws flailing in the air. When he was done, Sammy stood and gave himself a good shake.

Tired from his adventures, the dog scratched and clawed at some leaves on the ground. After several minutes, he had a nice pile gathered. With a sniff and sneeze, Sammy plopped down in the center and lowered his head onto his front paws, his eyes drifting shut as the sun dipped below the horizon.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean pulled the Impala into the nearly empty parking lot of Billy's Homestead Restaurant a few minutes later. His one and only thought at this point was to get some coffee in him, throw back a couple of painkillers he'd retrieved from the first aid kit in the trunk, and get back to Webster Creek Park despite what the cop had said. He inched from the driver's seat of the car and stood, cursing when his injured ankle almost refused to bear any weight at all. Not wanting to appear any more foolish by dragging the tree branch into the restaurant, Dean gritted his teeth hard, a white line of pain forming around his mouth, and limped his way slowly into the diner.

Since there were so few patrons, the sign by the door read "Please Seat Yourself". Dean made a beeline for the booth nearest the door and sank onto the blue vinyl bench seat. Air hissed out of the various cracks in the vinyl; ones not yet repaired with strips of silvery duct tape. He propped his foot up on the opposite seat with a hiss that rivaled the noises made by the worn seat when he sat down. The waitress, Marilee by her name tag, was at the table in a matter of seconds and placed a small glass of ice water and napkin-rolled silverware down in front of him.

"What can I get for ya?"

Dean canted an arm on the table and rested his forehead in his hand. "Coffee. Please." His voice was rough and hoarse.

"Coffee? That's all?"

"Just coffee."

"Regular or decaf?"

When her customer snorted at the mention of decaf, Marilee smiled and said, "Right. Regular it is."

Once the waitress disappeared, Dean tapped three ibuprofen tablets from the small white bottle, tossed them in his mouth, and chased them down with a swig of water, grimacing at both the metallic tang of the cold liquid and the lingering bitterness the little brown pills left on his tongue. He barely acknowledged when the waitress returned and placed a stoneware mug of hot coffee on the table but picked up the mug immediately and took a swig of the dark brew, not caring that it was hot and burned his mouth. After a couple of more gulps, he looked around for the waitress to signal for a refill.

When she returned to his table a few minutes later, the blonde placed a heaping plate of food—a huge, thick turkey club sandwich with extra bacon and crispy steak fries—in front of him.

"What's this? All I ordered was coffee."

"Compliments of Sergeant Brody Ellison, Webster Creek PD."

"Nah, that's o—" He made a move to hand her back the plate.

"Brody called to say you'd probably be stopping in and to keep an eye out for you. And if you don't mind my saying so, hun," Marilee eyed the man in front of her, taking in his damp, disheveled, and overall weary appearance, "he was right—you do look about done in."

"But . . ."

"It's bought and paid for. Might as well eat it," Marilee topped off his coffee with a wink and spun away before he could protest further.

Dean managed to down half the food on his plate before he pushed it away. He had to admit that having some food in his stomach, as well as some much-needed caffeine in his system, made him feel considerably better than when he'd walked . . . well, hobbled . . . in the front door. Now it was time to get moving again. To get back out to that park. He was just extracting some money from his wallet to toss out on the table when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, hun. Meal's paid for. And so is my tip. Brody's a good guy. He also happens to be my fiancé. Listen, he told me about your dog."

Though he knew they were likely just being friendly, Dean was uncomfortable with the idea of being a topic of conversation between them. In truth, he found it troublesome when any random strangers were so kind to him. It was a learned response from the kind of life he led, and he squirmed a little.

Seeing his uneasiness, Marilee smiled. "Listen, when—not IF—when you find him, swing by and we'll fix you both up with something good to eat. I'm sure your dog would love a big, ol' juicy hamburger or two."

Dean nodded his agreement and mumbled a 'thank you' before standing and lurching his way out of the restaurant. The three painkillers he'd taken had done nothing to ease the hot pain lancing up his leg and his limp was more pronounced than ever.

Throwing himself into the driver's seat of the Impala, Dean rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

_Ahh, Sammy where the hell'd you run off to?_

The young hunter twisted the key in the ignition, setting the Impala to rumbling. He sat quietly for a minute contemplating his next move before putting the car in gear and heading out of the parking lot, turning at the last second in the opposite direction of the park and toward the Camelot Motel.

He lucked out, finding an empty space right outside the room. Dean made slow but steady—if lurching—progress to the door and with some difficulty fished the key from the depths of his still-damp denim pocket. When he finally got the door open, he wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Dean felt his jaw drop. The room was a mess. Not just your average two-single-men-sharing-tight-quarters kind of mess either. Every piece of clothing that he and Sam owned—from the smallest item to the largest—everything was strewn hither and yon throughout the room. From one corner to another. Short-sleeved t-shirts, long-sleeved button down shirts, and jeans were haphazardly plastered flat out against the walls. For all the world looking like they'd come alive and tried to make a break for it. Socks and individual shoes and boots dangled and twirled in every corner. Worse yet, their underwear—their _underwear_ hung suspended—right side up and upside down—in mid-air. As Dean crept into the room, he decided it was like standing in the middle of a giant dryer when time suddenly stood still in the middle of the tumble cycle. He stood for a moment, blinking, doing his best to absorb what his eyes were telling him. It was then he noticed the sparkling, iridescent dust—pixie dust—that glittered on each piece of clothing.

He limped to his bed and plunked down with a half laugh, half groan.

_Freakin' pixies! Couldn't just be happy with turning Sammy into a dog could you?_

With a concerted effort, Dean avoided cursing the fanciful creature out loud lest the pixie decide to exact some sort of further revenge in the name of "fun". Instead he stood and reached for a pair—God, he hoped they were his—underwear and attempted to pull them down. They didn't budge. After a few more vigorous but ineffectual tugs, the hunter gave up. In fact, he abandoned the idea of showering and changing into dry clothes altogether. The bed looked inviting and the idea of taking a quick nap was tempting, but in all honesty Dean was too creeped out—with an iota or two of paranoia thrown in—to consider staying in the motel room alone. It just seemed like that would be inviting further mischief. The kind of mischief he didn't have the time or energy to deal with right now. Not to mention he had no desire to end up being turned into a dog. Or a cat. Or a freakin' gerbil. He shuddered at that last thought—gerbils were too close to rats for his liking.

Mumbling under his breath about irksome pixies and wayward pet brothers, Dean left the freaky enchanted motel room and retreated to his safe zone—the Impala. It was time to head back to the park anyway.


	11. Land of the Lost

_Hopefully, y'all don't find this chapter too painfully boring. If you do and choose to throw rotten tomatoes at me, please--be gentle._

* * *

Halfway to his destination, rain began to patter against the windows of the Impala. It started with one or two tinkling, musical drops at first, then many, steadily evolving into a downpour splattering incessantly and with force against the glass. A cold wind drove the drops sideways. Though no thunder or lightning accompanied the deluge this time, but it was foul and miserable just the same. Dean stifled a groan.

He pulled the big car to the shoulder of the road just down a ways from the gated parking lot of Webster Creek Park. Ellison was sure to see it on his next patrol, but Dean was too tired and too worried about Sam to care. He had to get back in the woods to look for Sam.

Hobbling from the driver's side of the car, the young hunter quickly opened the trunk and pulled out a flashlight. He debated for half a second whether to secret his Colt at his back but decided against it, opting instead to make sure he had several knives tucked away in various places. Wiping his wet face with one hand as he slammed the trunk closed with the other, Dean then grabbed his "cane", flicked on the flashlight, and began his hitching trek into the woods.

No more than a quarter of an hour within the copse of trees and Dean was already panting with exertion and shivering in the pre-winter chill. If trekking the terrain earlier in the day had been difficult, it was now next to impossible. The yellowish beam of the flashlight did little to push back the pitch black night while the rain obscured everything the beam managed to feebly illuminate. Low hanging branches tugged at his clothes like arthritic, enfeebled fingers and occasionally clawed at his face, opening several shallow scratches. After a few minutes, Dean realized that his panting was from more than exertion. The curtain of rain, the near impenetrable darkness, and the trees—not to mention exhaustion—all combined to make him feel a little claustrophobic, which he knew was absolutely ridiculous considering he was outside. Yet acknowledging that piece of logic did nothing to stop the feeling. Dean ignored it and determinedly pressed forward.

This additional downpour, coupled with the earlier storm, made the ground even more slick and muddy and the hike slow going. It felt like he was tiptoeing. The young hunter let out a startled yelp when his feet suddenly went out from under him and he went down—hard—the breath whooshing from his lungs despite the somewhat cushioning ooze. The unexpected fall jarred his arm and the flashlight he was holding flew from his chilled fingers, slamming into a tree. Its light immediately sputtering out.

_Ow—shit!_

Dean rolled to his side and slowly sat up, blinking rainwater from his eyes and working to pull in air. His gaze darted around, seeing nothing but shadows and more shadows on a field of black. Seeking hands found his tree limb walking stick lying right next to him, but failed to find the flashlight which—judging from the loud crack he'd heard—he was sure was broken anyway.

_Damn it._

As usual, good luck couldn't be bothered to pay a visit. With a groan of frustration, Dean realized he was now every bit as lost in the woods as his brother turned dog. He wouldn't be going anywhere until the crack of dawn.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Brody Ellison pulled his police cruiser up behind the black 1967 Impala parked on the shoulder and trained one of his side spotlights on the vehicle. He'd had a sneaking suspicion that the young guy he'd talked to earlier would come back regardless of his warning. Instinct told him there was more to the story than just a lost dog. Brody, though, was also pretty damn sure that Dean Wayne wasn't out there in the downpour looking to get high or get laid.

With a sigh, Brody eased open his door and slid out of the car, hurrying through the rain to the driver's side door, his booted feet creating mini-cascades with each step. A quick look inside the car showed it to be empty just as he'd expected it would be. Ellison retreated to his vehicle, tossing his plastic-covered uniform hat on the seat next to him, and sat for a moment staring at the woods barely visible in the dark and further obscured by the curtain of falling water.

_Stubborn idiot._

With still a little more than five hours left on his shift, Brody knew there was nothing he could do at the moment. But he'd be back at dawn.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

At some point during the night, Dean had snugged himself against a tree and fallen into a light doze. He came awake when he heard a rustling somewhere nearby, opening his eyes to see the first pink and yellow streaks of dawn blooming on the horizon—though the woods still had yet to shake their shadows. Alert and wary, he gaze studied the shades of lightening charcoal, searching for the source of the noise and hoping against hope that maybe Sammy had found him.

"Sammy?" he called, his voice raspy, rusty from sleep and overuse the day before.

"Nope, not Sammy. Sorry."

Dean stood as he saw Brody Ellison emerge from between two trees.

As the cop drew closer, he whistled. "You look like you've been dragged through a keyhole backwards—twice."

The hunter eyed the clean and warmly-dressed cop with something akin to envy. "Gee, thanks," he muttered sourly.

"So you've been out here all night."

It wasn't a question and Dean merely shrugged.

Brody eyed the man before him from head to toe, noting the wet, mud-covered clothes and the shivers that traveled up and down his spine. "Seriously, man, you're a mess."

"Doesn't matter. Now that the sun's up, I gotta start looking for Sammy again."

"It's gonna matter if you keel over. You won't find him then."

Dean scowled and started to walk away, leaning heavily on the tree branch to steady his gait. "Help or don't help—it's up to you. But I'm searching for my brother—dog—my brother's dog."

"I knew it," muttered Ellison.

"Knew what?" the elder Winchester tossed over his shoulder without looking back.

"I knew you were a stubborn ass." When Dean snorted, Brody figured it must be in agreement and moved to catch up to him.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sammy moaned, snuffled, and sneezed in distress before plopping down on the ground and pawing at his muzzle in an attempt to relieve the odiferous stinging. He'd thought he'd found a new friend this morning to play with and engage in a fun game of chase. But his furry black-and-white waddling buddy had turned on him with a vengeance, spraying Sammy with a noxious substance long before he'd gotten close enough to bark a proper hello.

After a final grunt and a couple of gasping reverse sneezes brought on by the potent irritant, Sammy sat up and looked around dejectedly, trying to decide which way to wander. He was hungry, tired, and bored. None of his new friends wanted to play with him. But most of all, Sammy was lonely. He missed his human—the tall man who fed pancakes and took him for rides in the car with the window down.

In the end, Sammy decided to reverse direction and head back the way he'd come yesterday. He stood and trotted toward the creek that now roared, turbulent from all the recent rain.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The sun made far quicker progress across in the sky than the two men did through the woods. By mid-afternoon, Dean was teetering on the brink of exhaustion and was reluctantly leaning on Brody for support while he hobbled and wobbled, having discarded the increasingly ineffectual tree branch hours earlier. It was when Dean stumbled for the half dozenth time in a matter of minutes that Brody called a halt.

"All right, that's it. We need to stop. In fact, I think we should head back to the cars."

Dean pulled himself straight and out of Ellison's grasp. "What? No! No—I'm not leaving until I find Sammy."

"Look—Dean—I know you're worried about your brother's dog. But, seriously, you're about to fall over."

"No, I'm not."

"You are. And I know that ankle is killing you, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. It's fine. Just a sprain."

"Yeah, right. So you're always as pale and gray as skim milk, eh? And those grooves furrowed between your eyes just mean you're deep in thought, hmm?"

_God, he sounds just like Sam. _Dean sighed. "Whatever."

"I could arrest you," Brody threatened.

"You wouldn't!"

"If it gets you out of these woods and gets you to rest a little then yeah—I would."

"On what charge?"

"I'll think of something."

"I have to find the dog. It's important. You don't understand . . ." Dean inadvertently shifted his weight to his bad ankle, and he wavered precariously as a shaft of pain jolted up the length of his leg.

Brody sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Listen—let's just make our way back to my car. We'll grab something to eat and some coffee. You can rest for a couple of hours, take care of that ankle—maybe even grab a hot shower and some dry clothes. Then I'll bring you back here. I can help for a few more hours before my shift starts."

Dean wanted to argue further, but the cop adjusted his stance and a glint appeared in his eyes. "Fine! Two hours. I'll give it two hours." He latched on to Brody's shoulder, trying not to wince as they began to walk once more.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean pulled to a stop. "You hear that?"

"What? I don't hear anything."

"Ssshh." After a couple of seconds, his hunter's ears picked up the rustling noise he'd heard moments ago. Whatever was making the noise, it was coming closer. Despite the fact that he'd been disappointed numerous times throughout the day, Dean sent up a quick prayer and called out, "Sammy? Sammy, is that you? Here, boy!"

The hunter almost fell over in shock when the dog he'd been searching for for the better part of two days came bounding out of some underbrush and rushed toward him with a few ecstatic barks.

"Sam!" Dean was so happy to see his brother he dropped to his knees and started to throw his arms around him. He stopped mid-motion and instinctively threw himself backward before pinching his nostrils shut and curling his top lip in disgust. It was all he could do not to gag.

"Holy hell! Man, Rin Tin Tin, you stink to high heaven."

TBC . . .


	12. Bathtime!

"Holy shit," exclaimed Brody, "that dog sure enough found one mean and potent skunk to tangle with!"

Dean stood and backed away a couple of steps, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Skunk? That can't all be skunk!"

"Well, no—kinda smells like he found something dead to roll in too."

"Wait—what? Something dead? What do you mean something dead?"

"Dead as in a rotting decomposed pile of slimy goo."

The young hunter looked horrified. "Dogs do that?"

"Yup, that they do. Used to live up near Lake Erie. Had this dog once—every single time I took her to the beach, she'd find a dead fish or two to roll in. Loved it."

"Why the hell do they do that?" Dean scowled at the cop.

Brody shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. It's just something dogs do."

"That's just . . . just nasty."

"Won't get an argument outta me there."

The cop bent down and grabbed the dog's tattered and dirty leash. Sammy bumped his head against the man's leg seeking attention. Brody gave him a quick scratch under his chin, the only place that seemed to be 'safe'. "Boy, you sure caused this one no end of worry." As he spoke, he inclined his head toward the younger man standing—more like swaying—next to him.

"C'mon, let's get you both out of these godforsaken woods. Even I've had enough of lookin' at trees, trees, and more trees for awhile."

The hike back to the vehicles was long. If Dean hadn't been holding on to Brody just to keep himself upright, he might have plugged his nose, such was the stench wafting off Sammy as the dog trotted happily a foot or two out in front of him.

The ragtag trio finally emerged from the woods into the park. Ignoring the various people roaming about and the children playing on the playground, they made their way to the Impala and Brody's Ford truck still sitting on the shoulder of the road.

"Ahh, man—Sammy, you're gonna stink up the inside of the Impala!" Dean shifted his body weight so he was now leaning against the car.

"Listen, how far do you have to go?"

"Got a room up at the Camelot Motel."

Ellison raised an eyebrow. "Really? I'm surprised ol' Dingle would let you have a dog."

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Paid him a little extra. Seemed to do the trick."

"Ah, now THAT doesn't surprise me. Okay, so why don't I take the dog. He can ride in the back of my truck. You're sure you're okay to drive?"

Dean tensed at the thought of being separated from Sammy again. "No . . . uh . . . I mean, yes, I can drive. But I can take him. He'll be fine in the car. I'll just roll down all the windows." Many years of required secrecy and general avoidance of law enforcement had Dean feeling antsy at the cop's continued helpfulness.

"It's up to you, but I gotta warn you—you put that dog in the car now, you'll be smelling skunk and company from here to California and back again. This is one smell that's gonna linger."

The hunter thought about it for a second—thought about how he and Sam more or less lived out of the big, shiny classic car—and reluctantly agreed. He rattled off their room number and watched with trepidation as Brody coaxed Sammy into jumping in the back of his truck, shutting the tailgate with a clang. Sammy quickly explored the nearly empty truck bed before hanging his head over the side and woofing happily.

Seeing the look on Dean's face, Ellison couldn't help but grin. "I'll go first. You follow. That way you can keep an eye on him." He helped the younger man around to the driver's side before heading for the cab of his own truck.

Dean sank down into the seat, ridiculously grateful for the feel of soft leather beneath his butt. It had been a long few days. He stabbed the key home and started his steel-and-chrome girl, waiting for Ellison's blue truck to pull out onto the road. He spent the entire two-mile drive back to the motel with his eyes mostly trained on Sammy rather than the road. Oddly enough, the dog's eyes were trained on him too.

Back at the motel, Dean waited for Brody to back his truck into a space near the room and then pulled in next to him. By the time, he pulled his exhausted body from the car and hop-hobbled around the hood, the cop had the tailgate down and Sammy was happily jumping to the ground, tail wagging with enthusiasm. Dean took hold of his leash and said, "C'mon, oh stinky one, let's give you a bath. Wait," Dean looked at Brody with a quizzical look on his face, "what the hell do I use to get that smell out? I don't think that fruity-coconutty frou frou crap my brother uses is gonna cut it. Neither is the cheap stuff I use."

"Tomato juice."

Dean scowled at the taller man. "Say again?"

"Tomato juice. Tomato paste. Tomato sauce. It seems to work—mostly. But you won't wanna eat Italian food for a good long while, I'll tell you that."

"Great," muttered Dean, dropping his forehead into his hand, "Tomato whatever. How much do I need?"

"It's all taken care of. I called Marilee. She's on her way over with everything you'll need."

Dean pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, hoping he had enough cash to reimburse the cop. Before he could check, however, Brody waved a dismissive hand.

"I've got it."

"Uh . . ." the older Winchester rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, "um . . . thanks . . . I . . . we . . . my brother and I owe you one. Actually, more than one I guess."

"Who knows—maybe some day I'll get to collect. Listen, I've gotta run and catch a couple of hours of shut eye before my shift tonight. Marilee should be here any minute."

"Hey . . . yeah . . . okay," Had he been able, Dean would have shifted nervously from foot-to-foot. Instead, he stuck out his hand offering a handshake—something he rarely ever did and continued, "thanks . . . for everything."

Brody tapped a two-finger salute against the brim of his baseball cap.

Dean watched the other man pull out of the parking lot and drive off. Despite the fact he was a member of law enforcement—technically the enemy in Winchester world—Dean was eternally grateful for the man's help. With a sigh, he tugged on the leash and led Sammy into the room.

It wasn't until he crossed the threshold that he remembered the pixie's latest prank and he expected to see their clothes still suspended in mid-air and plastered to the walls. To his relief, all the items now lay in jumbled puddles on the floor, all in all creating one hell of a mess. But at that exact moment, he didn't particularly care if for no other reason than that the odor rapidly filling the room was beginning to make his eyes water and his nose tingle.

Dean was in the bathroom filling the small tub with warm water under Sammy dog's watchful, and somewhat reproachful, eyes when a knock sounded at the door. He pointed a finger at the dog and ordered, "You stay!" Dean limped his way out of the bathroom, not in the least surprised when the dog followed him. He hadn't expected anything less from his brother. He inched his way to the door and swung it open, admitting the waitress, Marilee, from the diner and the bag of supplies she carried.

"Hey, there. Brought you the supplies Brody said you needed. I'm so glad you found your dog! And he's such a big ol' cutey too!" On the last sentence, her voice morphed into that weird baby talk Dean noticed women used around Sammy—the dog, not the human. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes.

_Though I'd pay good money to see human Sam's face if a girl DID talk to him like that. Totally would be worth every penny._ With a slight grin, he made a mental note of the idea for their next Winchester prank war.

"Uhh, yeah, a big ol' cutey," echoed Dean. "So you brought tomato juice?"

"Sure did. And a few other things too." Marilee's gaze roamed around the room, her mouth forming a little "O" when she saw the mess. She politely refrained from making any comment and placed the bag on the small debris-covered table.

Dean squirmed and was about to spout off an apology for the state of the room but Marilee continued talking before he could.

"I brought you tomato juice, Dawn Dish Liquid, and hydrogen peroxide." She handed Dean each of the items as she said the name. "Oh! And rubber gloves. Figured you might like those."

"Uh, thanks," he muttered, juggling the multiple items now in his arms.

"And here are the instructions I printed off the internet."

"Okay."

Marilee's own eyes were tearing up from the pungent smell swirling throughout the room. She began to edge toward the door. "Okay, well, I guess you have everything you need. I'll be at the diner later if you guys get hungry. Good luck!" She slipped out the door and gently closed it behind her, relishing the fresh air by taking several deep breaths.

Dean watched the door close and muttered, "All right—c'mon, Sammy, let's get this over with."

The squirming and whimpering started the minute Dean lowered Sammy into the tub. It reminded him of what it was like bathing Sam as a toddler and brought a little grin to his face. The howling started right after he made it through one can of the tomato juice. But it wasn't until Sammy started twisting his body—from his nose to the tip of his tail—to and fro, sending tomato juice and soap bubbles flying to every far corner of the bathroom that the entire bath turned into a complete and utter disaster.

After an hour and fifteen minutes, Dean gave up. Sammy was as clean and non-smelly as he was going to get. Grabbing one of the two thin towels off the little shelf, Dean dried the dog the best he could before using the second one on himself.

Beyond exhausted now, he hobbled from the tiny bathroom and sat down on the bed. It took several minutes for him to work off his boot given the swollen state of his ankle. Its removal was accompanied by a few moans and groans and several colorful curses. Once that was done, he stripped off his wet clothes and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. His or Sam's he didn't know or care.

Ignoring the mess left in the bathroom, the lingering sulphuric odor permeating the air, and the loud rumbling of his empty stomach, the hunter crawled under the bed covers, his eyes already at half mast. He patted the bed with his hand. "C'mon, Fido, time to get some sleep."

With a soft woof, Sam hopped up on the bed and stretched out next to his human letting loose a deep and contented sigh.

Dean felt the dog's weight settle next to him and let out a contented sigh of his own.

TBC . . .


	13. Dude, You Were a Dog!

Well, here it is--the last chapter. To all of you who've taken the time to read and to all who left such kind reviews, I thank you. I hope you enjoy this final addition.

* * *

Dean was yanked from a sound sleep by a nearly simultaneous yelp and a thud of something large striking the threadbare carpet

Dean was yanked from a sound sleep by a nearly simultaneous yelp and a thud of something large striking the threadbare carpet. He jackknifed to a sitting position, rubbing sleep heavy eyes with closed fists before looking worriedly around the dimly lit room.

"Sammy?" He paused, not know if he should whistle for the dog or expect an answer from a human.

The appearance of Sam's shaggy chestnut hair and wide hazel eyes above the edge of the mattress answered the question, but it was accompanied by another squeaky yelp and the quick disappearance of the faded comforter off the bed.

"Uh . . . Dean? Why . . . why did I just roll off the end of your bed?

The older man opened his mouth to speak but was cut off before he could utter a sound.

"And why the hell am I naked?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his scruffy blondish-brown spikes of hair and blinked. "Well, Sammy, umm . . . you see . . . you were a . . . a dog."

Misinterpreting his brother's words, Sam muttered, "You mean I brought a woman back here? But why was I sleeping on _your_ bed?" His young hunter's expressive eyes grew even larger. "Wait—we didn't . . . I mean . . . you and I didn't . . . both . . . you know . . ."

Dean smirked and rolled his eyes at Sam's stuttering question. "Geez, no—you perv! That's just all kinds of wrong. Besides you'd get jealous of my . . . attributes. I mean you really were a dog. An honest to goodness furry, floppy-eared D-O-G!"

"B-But . . . how . . . why . . . What the hell?" He watched with keen interest as his brother reached out a hand and wiped his fingers across the surface of the nightstand and then held his fingers up for inspection. He could see a glittery substance shining in the low light.

"A pixie prank apparently."

"Ah, man. You're kidding me. Freakin' pixies? Here?" He groaned.

"Dude, take a look at the room. Are you really all that surprised?"

Sam glanced around their current environs and heaved a long, drawno out sigh. "No, I guess I'm not surprised at all. How long?"

"What?"

"How long was I a dog? Couple of minutes? Couple of hours?"

"Four days. I guess anyway. To tell you the truth I lost track of time. But their note said four days." Dean held out a piece of fragile gossamer paper for Sam to read.

_In four days time_

_it will be done,_

_return will he_

_into mother's son._

Just as Sam finished reading, a light and ethereal giggle filled the room and the note crumbled to shimmery dust and disappeared.

"Four DAYS!" Sam ran a hand through his hair, an expression of disbelief on his face. He suddenly stopped and wrinkled his nose. "What the hell is that smell?"

"That, brother dear, would be YOU. Apparently, you made nice with a skunk while you were lost in the woods at the park. Oh and since that wasn't enough stinkifying fun for you, you apparently rolled in something dead. That's what Brody said anyway."

"I was lost in the woods? How'd that happen? And who's Brody?"

"Brody Ellison—one of Webster Creek's boys in blue."

"A cop?" Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Long story. Why don't you take a shower and try to wash more of that stench off first?"

After another unappreciative whiff, Sam decided the whole sordid tale could wait and agreed. He pulled himself to his feet; securely holding the comforter wrapped tightly around his waist and marched toward the bathroom. A few seconds after flicking on the overhead light, Sam bellowed, "Dean!" and raced back into the main room.

"What the hell did I do while I was a dog—maul you or something? There's blood all over the walls in there!" Sam's gaze was roving over what he could see of his brother.

Dean held up a calming hand and responded, "Relax, bro. It's tomato juice, not blood."

"Tomato juice?"

"Yeah, it's supposed to help get rid of that nasty skunk smell. That and vinegar, dog shampoo—a bunch of other stuff." Dean waved his left hand in the air. "If you ask me, none of it worked very well."

"You're right. I still reek." With that, Sam turned on his heel and made his way back into the tiny bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a firm thud and click of the lock.

It was a good 15 minutes later when the door reopened and Sam, now with a towel snug around his hips, strolled back into the main room, a cloud of steam billowing behind him and his towel-dried hair curling wildly around his face. Feeling more normal and grounded and considerably less smelly, he started for his duffel bag. It was then that he truly noticed their clothes messily strewn about.

"It looks like a tornado went through here. I didn't do that, did I?"

Dean, who was still reclining in bed with his eyes closed, said, "Nope. That would be yet another prank on behalf of the pixies. Shoulda seen it—they were all floating in mid-air."

The tall young hunter poked around at the various and sundry pieces of clothing, extracting items that belonged to him. He quickly pulled on boxers, dropped the towel and pulled on a pair of jeans before yanking a maroon-colored t-shirt over his head. He searched out a pair of black socks and sat down on his bed to pull them on.

"So—I was a dog?"

The older sibling pushed himself upright and leaned against the garishly decorated wall. "Uh huh."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at his head a little as he contemplated the concept.

"Still got fleas there, Sammy?"

The younger man rolled his eyes.

Undaunted, Dean continued with a grin, "Dude, you totally had to go outside to go to the bathroom!"

The recent victim of the precocious pixie prank thought about that for a few seconds and then retorted, "So? If I had to use the bathroom outside that just means YOU had to clean up after me." He smiled when he saw his older brother wrinkle his nose in distaste.

"So how'd I end up lost in the park?"

"Ah, man, you should've seen it. For once in your life, geek boy, you were an honest-to-God chick magnet! The women just couldn't resist you. And then when they got a look at me—well—"

"Wait—you took me to the park to pimp me out so you could pick up chicks?"

"No. I took you to the park because that seems to be what people do when they have a dog. The chick magnet thing was just an added bonus."

"How'd I end up lost?"

Dean sighed and pushed back his covers, dropping his feet to the floor. "There was this girl, Josie . . ."

Sam pointed an accusing finger at his brother. "I KNEW it. You got all wrapped up in her and forgot all about me, didn't you?"

The eldest Winchester shot his brother a glare. "No, I didn't forget all about you, jerk. Josie and I were just having some coffee one morning and her ex-boyfriend, Dick—I mean, _Dirk_," Dean placed extra, and unkind, emphasis on the name, "this big, freakin' behemoth—took exception to it. He kinda blindsided me. Got in a few lucky shots. Dumped me in the pond. By the time I was able to take him down, your little doggy-ass was gone."

He'd been so wrapped up in the concept that he'd lived life as a dog for the last few days, Sam hadn't paid much attention to his older brother's appearance and felt bad for being so self-absorbed. Now looking more closely, he could see the mottled bruising along with a variety of scratches and scrapes—not to mention the wrinkled clothing, layer of dirt, and dark circles under his eyes. "Sorry, man. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Told ya he only got in a few lucky shots." Deciding it was time to make quick use of the facilities, Dean pushed himself slowly to his feet, cringing at the stiffness of sore muscles and joints. His first step though belied his nonchalant words as his bad ankle gave way under his weight. Only Sam's quick reaction, lunging up and off the bed and grabbing his arm saved him from an ungainly descent face first to the floor.

"What's wrong? I thought you said you were all right," scolded Sam.

"It's nothing. Just a sprained ankle."

"Did Dirk do that too?"

"Uh uh. _**I**_ did that when I was out searching the woods for your shaggy butt. Stepped in some stupid hole or something."

"Lemme look."

Dean's bladder twinged reminding him it was painfully full. "No."

The younger man let out a growl that sounded not unlike the ones he emitted while still a dog and Dean sighed. "Fine. You can look at it AFTER I go to the bathroom. And no I don't need your help to get there." One painful hop-step later, he muttered, "Dammit. Okay, gimme your arm, Sasquatch."

Sam helped his brother navigate to the tiny bathroom and watched as he hobbled inside and shut the door with a thud. While he waited for Dean to take care of business, Sam started to tidy up the disaster that was their room. A few minutes later, he heard the toilet flush and started back for the door expecting it to open. Instead he heard the shower start. Shaking his head, Sam muttered, "Stubborn bastard." He returned to sorting out the clothes the mischievous creatures had used as their own personal toys. Sam grabbed a few things and placed them just inside the bathroom door for Dean to find.

When the door opened some time later, Dean stood balancing on his right foot, his fingers tightly gripping the door jamb. A white line of pain circled his lips.

Sam hurried over and helped him across the room. Taking advantage of his brother's wobbly stance, the taller man pushed him down on the bed. "Sit."

Dropping to his knees, Sam examined Dean's injured joint, his fingers pushing and pressing in numerous locations, eliciting one or two reluctant gasps when he hit particularly painful spots. It was swollen to at least twice its normal size and was an ugly shade of black-and-blue.

"Geez, this looks really bad, Dean. Are you sure it's not fractured?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't think so, but it hurts like a sonuvabitch—maybe it is." The admission pained him almost as much as the ankle itself.

"We should get it looked at."

"Yeah, well, not around here. We'll hit a clinic or something somewhere else."

Sam sighed. "Fine. But I'm at least gonna wrap it. Be right back." He ran out to the Impala to grab the first aid kit. Grabbing a glass of water from the bathroom sink, Sam tipped two pain pills into his hand and held them, along with the water, out to his brother. That accomplished, he pulled out one of their Ace bandages and began to wrap.

"I don't think you'll be getting your boot back on for awhile," he observed as he wound the stretch brown cloth over and under the heel of Dean's foot.

"Maybe I'll have to borrow one of those freakin' boats you call shoes. Hey, that reminds me! You, dog-breath, owe me a new pair of shoes."

"What? Why?"

"Dude, you totally peed on my foot! It was nasty!"

This news caused Sam to laugh. "Yeah well, knowing you, you probably deserved it and then some."

"You still owe me, doofus. AND while you're at it—a pair of socks too."

"I'll get right on that."

The boys were quiet for a moment as Sam finished wrapping the Ace bandage and secured it with its two little metal clips.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"What?"

"You know what—when you were a dog . . . you were like . . . licking your own . . . licking yourself."

Sam felt heat build in his cheeks and punched his brother in the upper arm with enough force that even the seasoned hunter flinched.

"Shut up. I was a dog! Besides I just bet you'd like to have that ability."

Dean paused and donned a contemplative look, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Hmm. Could come in handy sometimes." He grinned a decidedly wolfish grin.

"You're sick, you know that. Sick!"

The older man couldn't help it; he broke down into laughter at the expression on his younger brother's face. When he could again speak coherently, he said, "Man, I'm starving. Let's pack up and get the hell out of here. I need food. And coffee. Lotsa coffee." Dean started to stand, intent on packing his duffel so they could hit the road. Sam pushed him back down.

"Stay. It'll be faster if I do it."

Dean shot him a disgruntled look but stayed seated on the bed. Truth be told, the pain pills hadn't kicked in yet and his ankle really was killing him.

Sam quickly gathered all of their stuff and packed their duffel bags. After storing them in the trunk of the Impala, he quickly dropped off the room key before heading back to help Dean out to the car.

He gave one final look around the creepy motel room. "Shouldn't we do something about the pixies?" he queried as they headed for the door.

"Nah. Dad always said they're mostly harmless, but once you try to get rid of 'em—which hardly ever works—their pranks could turn deadly. I don't think we should chance it."

When Sam headed for the passenger side, Dean resisted. "What're you doing?"

"Umm . . . helping you to the car?"

"Wrong side. I'm driving."

"Dean . . . your ankle . . ."

"Yeah, my _left_ ankle—use my right foot to drive."

Seeing the implacable look on his brother's face, Sam reversed direction and helped Dean to the driver's side door. He waited until Dean was settled before jogging around to the passenger side and sliding into his seat. Sam waited for the other man to bring the car to life. When that didn't happen, he looked over at him with a quizzical frown. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for you to roll down the window and stick your head out so you can sniff the air—you know with your tongue hanging out the side of your mouth and everything." Dean's loud guffaw filled the close confines of the vehicle.

"Ha ha. You're a laugh riot."

The empty, crinkled up M&M bag aimed at his head made not the slightest impact on his merry laughter as he turned the key and set the Impala to rumbling. It was good to have Sammy back.

Sam turned his disgruntled and pouty gaze to the world beyond the window, completely and utterly ignoring the fact that he felt at all tempted to do just what his brother had suggested.

_FINI_


End file.
